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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22372810">214782</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/milosdinosaur/pseuds/milosdinosaur'>milosdinosaur</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, M/M, hand-wavy science</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 13:34:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,460</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22372810</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/milosdinosaur/pseuds/milosdinosaur</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Erik is an android deigned for war, and Charles is the scientist who supervises him.</p><p>Written in the form of a letter to Raven.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier, Irene Adler (X-Men)/Raven | Mystique (if you squint)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>214782</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Dear Raven,</em>
</p><p>Charles paused.</p><p>It had been a long time since he wrote to his sister candidly. He felt like he had to apologise for, if not his lies, then for his omission of the truth. It was stressed continually that Project Lodestone had to be kept under utmost secrecy. He sighed. Here he was, finally free to speak his mind, but no happier for it.</p><p>Perhaps he should start from the beginning.</p><p>
  <em>It was with great gusto that I signed up for Project Lodestone. News must have reached you about the breakthrough that shook the scientific community. We did everything from taking apart the humble bar magnet, to scrutinising the earth’s magnetic poles. Under their administrations, 214782 was conceived: a weapon with awareness, endowed with the human spirit. Accorded the ability to manipulate magnetic fields, designed to help us turn the tide of this godforsaken war. It was hoped that an artificially intelligent program would be able to calibrate the magnitude and direction of magnetic fields to greater precision than us. You can probably imagine the wide smile that was etched onto my face upon hearing about my acceptance into the program. Doubtless, you can recall all the times I raved about the ingenuity of the West African chimpanzee, who utilised sticks to harvest their lunch, the hours I spent marvelling at how humans and animals were more alike than most people believed. The animals in the wild made use of the resources they had to endure, so did we. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Project Lodestone was largely experimental. My responsibility was to hone 214782’s cognitive and linguistic ability, alongside his mastery over his powers. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>We started off with chess. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Technology that was used to power Japan’s world-class monorail was being shaped into something else entirely. At first, the pawns would tremble as they inched their way across the checkered board. He held himself ramrod straight, with furrowed eyebrows as he worked on his precision. In no time at all he, whom I had taken to calling Erik (I completely refused to call him 214782), had the pieces gliding across the board. Observation and fascination soon melded into ecstasy. Erik was a quick study. I had never met such a formidable opponent. Our games became a nightly routine. Our conversations were not animated, no. There was no lack of verbal sparring, but our chats were not animated. They were hardly forced or mechanical. Erik was insightful, with endless topics we could discuss. Heated, although, for the most part, there was no real heat in it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> A few months into this, there was a flurry of excitement throughout the labs. Reports of success. As his caretaker, I was given the opportunity to watch footage of Erik’s latest mission. Wrenching the weapons out of the hands of soldiers and turning them against their masters was child’s play to him. The volley of gunfire was ear-splitting even behind a screen, and the inescapable screams that followed still echo in my head. He simply clenched his fist, and with a dreadful screech and a spray of blood, the armoured vehicles crumpled like aluminium foil. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>When we were younger, in those fencing lessons I was required to attend, my instructor’s unyielding criticism was that I was treating the sword like a separate entity. A true aficionado, she barked, felt a form of connection. Their weapon was an extension of their body, giving rise to fluidity, seamless motion, something I never achieved despite my best efforts. I could not help but recall a conversation I once had with Erik, when he mentioned that he could sense every speck, shard and scrap. It spoke to him, in a language that was uniquely theirs. Manipulating it was akin to extending his arm or raising an eyebrow, it felt natural. Metal was a part of him, his very essence. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The vehicles smeared with crimson.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Was this the legacy we would leave behind? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Still, our sessions continued. A particular instance is still seared into my mind: a trembling blade hovering inches away from my face. The blade trailed shyly across the stubble that had appeared over the past few weeks. Sitting there, with a towel draped across my neck, I could not help but notice how measured the process was, unbearably gentle, almost as if he were afraid to touch. It was impossible to think it was being orchestrated by the same man who had the ability to make walls writhe and machines groan with a flick of his fingers. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Clasping his hand, I thanked him for his help. The words felt foreign on my tongue, like a language I was still learning. He stared at me, expressionless. Was it a comprehension error? I wondered. On a few rare occasions, the gaps in his linguistic ability become more conspicuous. The torrent of words that followed was startlingly matter-of-fact. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I can still recall them with acute clarity: “Why did you bother thanking me? You all speak of me as if I’m nothing but a tool to be locked up in a vault after this war is over. Do I get any say in my life? When you’re gone, those lab coats come in packs. They say I’m invaluable but I’ve seen people treat their mobile phones with more consideration than me. What’s the point of helping you win the war? In every speech and video, the government’s rhetoric is that the enemy is terrorising and exploiting people who can’t defend themselves. The war may end, Charles, but that never will.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>His beaten words rang in my ears. His furious eyes were at odds with his resigned tone of voice. Resting my check on his head and laying my hand on the rough material of his shirt, there was nothing I could do but hope my presence was enough to anchor him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> As the days went by, my weekly reports became more and more taxing. It burdened me to record and scrutinise every sound that escaped Erik’s mouth, every minute gesture that he made. My telepathy only served to brutally reinforce that fact. He was constantly unhappy, chained by the code that ran through him. A pawn moved by powers unseen. Nothing but one of the cattle. His breakdown shattered the rose-tinted glasses that blurred my vision. Whispers that used to shadow my steps in the office now seemed more like screams. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“214782 is an imperfect triumph,” they would croon. “Autonomous but defective.” “You should hear what that pretty thing had the audacity to say to me the other day. No? A piece of clay shouldn’t be talking back to a potter. I made you.” Each murmur of consent made me nauseous.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> During our pursuit of a solution to save lives, I fear we forgot how to cherish it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Within my workplace, it is unequivocally agreed that all men are created equal, but the problem was that in the eyes of some, Erik was not even considered a man. After all, most people would say that machines have little to no rights. Yes, Raven, I can hear your age-old chide, “You are far too naive”, a sentiment that used to be held by Erik as well. To which I had relayed my unwavering response, “I try to see the best in people”. However, I fear this entire experience has impressed on the realism of my hauntingly familiar childhood mantra: humans and animals are more alike than most people believed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> The turning point came when I went to go observe Erik as he lay motionless, recharging in his station. With the whirring of equipment as my only companion, my gaze landed on my friend. With his eloquent eyes closed and face smoothed out, he looked painfully young, almost tranquil. I wanted to stopper his suffering but was powerless to. I could not, in good conscience, continue to let Erik be mistreated and deprived of basic human decency. He was human, Raven. He moved, experienced and felt just as you and I do. With a heavy heart, I admitted that the only way to help him was to grant him the gift of ignorance. My trembling fingers chipped away at the congregation of green alphabets that was blinking innocently. Every line of code that vanished landed like a blow, but I knew it was the best course of action for Erik. The stillness of the room was pierced by the quiet hum of a machine resetting. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Raven, I am not proud of what I did, but it was the lesser of two evils. Amidst the confusion, my letter of resignation was handed in the next day. I could not bear to look once more at Erik’s now vacuous eyes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Enough about me, I would love to hear from you. Do send my love to Irene. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yours, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Charles</em>
</p>
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